


On The Cheek

by padfootagain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, like a lot of feels but some fluff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 20:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padfootagain/pseuds/padfootagain
Summary: Crowley takes a step further but Aziraphale panicks and wounds that were healed reopen.





	On The Cheek

He cracks at all the cracks that once were wide opened but had mended. He burns out through all the scars of past burns. He drowns in tears he’s cried a thousand times before.  
He pours himself a whiskey, drinks up the glass in one gulp, takes the bottle again to pour himself another, but thinks better, and puts down the glass instead.  
He moves just a few steps away, he can’t get the energy to walk to his bedroom or even to the sofa, so he reaches for the closest wall to lean against instead. Soon, he’s slipped against it, making his shoulder heat up a little with the friction against the grey wall, and he sits there, curled up on the floor, holding on his bottle of whiskey like it’s a safe line. Tears taste like bitterness and salt.  
He’s waited six thousand years. Six thousand years of silent ‘I love you’, silent ‘Don’t leave me’, silent 'I’m here for you and I’ll always be’. Six thousand years of 'he can’t love me, ever, he’s an angel, and I’m unforgiveable’ and 'Oh but maybe he could…’  
Six thousand years of fighting against his feelings while they consumed him in a bonfire more terrible than the flames of hell. Always the certainty that he will never have more than friendship, and always the hope that maybe one day he will be loved too.  
Sometimes he thought he could see the feeling in Aziraphale’s eyes. Love, or at the very least, great fondness. So he kept on hoping despite reason yelling to let go.  
He was there to protect him, no matter the danger, no matter where or when, he was there. He was there to save Aziraphale and what he loved most for millennia.  
Then a bomb exploded on a church in 1941, and a few years later, the angel gave him the most dangerous thermos covered in tartan in the universe. And Crowley thought there was something a bit more than friendly then.  
You go too fast for me, Crowley.  
Six thousand years… at the time, Crowley wanted to laugh at the words - or cry, he wasn’t sure. He did get tremendously drunk as soon as he was alone. But then, he accepted it. He learned to even see a sign of hope in these words. After all, these words didn’t mean 'never’, they meant 'not yet’.  
Besides, there was the matter of heaven and hell joining the entanglements of love and feelings and morals and wants and denials and longings, and that made a very messy mess. He knew Aziraphale wanted to protect himself, but most importantly, him.  
But then, Tadfield, Adam, Dog, the world not ending, the non-existent trial, and their sides were rid of them. Or more exactly, they were rid of their sides.  
It made the mess they lived in a little less messy, but Crowley didn’t want to push things too quickly. So he was patient, and truly hopeful for what seemed to be the first time. And he thought he could see signs of affections addressed to him.  
He drinks up a long, long gulp of whiskey, the liquor proceeding to burn his tongue before setting his throat on fire too. He has a heart-broken rictus.  
He guesses he is bad at reading signs…  
His whole frame is shaken by a sob. He knows he should have accepted long ago. Be happy to be just a friend. And he had been, really. He still is. He has waited for 6000 years, and if Aziraphale needed 6000 more to be ready to love him this way, then he would embrace their friendship in the meantime. So… why can’t he be happy then? Why does it hurt so much to be pushed away? It’s not like it’s the first time it hurts like this. It’s just reopening wounds, and breaking fears loose, and tearing on fragile bits of souls apart, and making him fall in a pit he knows all too well. It feels like the Fall, but not quite like it. It feels almost worse.  
It really does shatter an entire universe when one thought he had someone, and realizes that actually, he is alone, and maybe has always been.  
The floor is cold under him, and the wall cold against him, and the glass of bottle in his fingers too is rather cool, and when he drinks it burns, but more like ice than fire. It feels so cold to be alone. He remembers the warmth of the bookshop, Aziraphale’s warmth, and he wishes to be back there now. He knows he can’t go back though. Not now. Maybe not ever.  
It’s crazy how it hurts to breathe. His veins are burning, and he wonders if his blood could be ashes now. Maybe he’s breathing ashes, that’s why it’s so hard to fill up his lings and empty them again, all that frozen burn needs to get somewhere.  
As he shakes on the ground, clinging on his whiskey, he calls himself a fool once more. It has been a while, but the words he thought about so many times echo through his mind again, and he believes them more than ever this time.  
How could Aziraphale love him. That way?! He is a fool, a poor idiotic fool. What could the angel see that is loveable? Nothing. He’s nothing more than a demon, fallen. He’s a snake changing skin to hide how hard he feels and how much it hurts, but it’s just pathetic, really. He’s a fool to ever think that an angel could love him.  
He drinks up again, choking a little on the liquor as a spasm close to a sob shakes him whole. By now, the bottle is half empty.  
He reckons that he should be used to it by now, it’s the same pain that comes back over and over again. Throbbing and knocking on his heart like a headache piercing through your temples at night. Sometimes it’s more painful, sometimes it hushes, but never disappears. It hurts too much to sleep it all away, so all you can do, really, is stare at the ceiling or close your eyes, waiting for the painkillers to make the pain subside just enough for you to dive into slumber. And you hope that the next morning, it will be gone. But often, it’s still here. Just a little less painful, more bearable, but it has settled and it will take more than a restful night to make it leave you alone.  
And that’s the worst part of it. Crowley’s suffered like this before, it’s just a matter of tearing his scars apart to expose his dark blood all over again. He knows the pain like he knows an old enemy. It’s familiar, if not reassuring. It hurts too much for him to just pass out, although he tirelessly takes another swig of the best medicine for a heartbreak. Maybe a little bit more of it will make him drift away. Maybe he’ll sleep for the next century, like he’s done before. Maybe he won’t bother to wake up this time.  
He repeatedly hits his head against the wall, as to mark the words he repeats in his head, the pain tainted with a dash of anger.  
You’re an idiot. Of course, he doesn’t love you that way. Stop it. Stop hoping for it.  
Wise words he reckons, but has he ever been wise? Curious, yes. Wise? He doesn’t think so, and in the matter of Aziraphale, he acknowledges the certainty.  
He plays the scene again and again in his head, and he can’t believe how stupid he has been. But then, he was with Aziraphale in Saint James’s park, on their bench, and there was no one around. They were laughing, Aziraphale had finished his cupcake, and they had fed the ducks a little earlier. The sun was slowly falling through the sky, but it was still warm on their skin. It was a nice afternoon. And Aziraphale sat just a little bit closer than he usually does, and there was a brush of fingers before he held Crowley’s hand. It was a chaste but loving gesture. It felt tender. It felt like a 'I’m here with you and I’m happy to be’, it felt like a 'we’ve lost 6000 years, we shouldn’t waste 6000 more’. And when Aziraphale looked at him, with his deep blue eyes and his pale locks messed by the soft wind, Crowley was certain to read in his eyes something that was close to how he felt. He couldn’t feel love the way the angel did, but he was pretty sure it was love. He recognized himself in this look painted on Aziraphale’s features. And Crowley thought then that it was time to take a leap of faith. After all these years, now that there was no one to hurt them because of the way they might feel, now that they had a true chance to be happy. So he leaned forward, too afraid to try to kiss the angel on the lips and aiming for his cheek instead. The sting of Aziraphale’s words in the Bentley that evening in Soho was too vivid still for Crowley to take a giant leap, a step forward would be enough. He didn’t want to go too fast again, so he reckoned that he would let the angel take the next step, if he wanted to.   
What a fool he was to think Aziraphale might want to.  
His lips met the soft cheek, a mere kiss, almost innocent if only Crowley’s entire frame had not been shaking, and his heart pounding, and his entire reality bursting into an uncontrollable combustion of withheld feelings and denied touches and maybes and one days and almosts. It lasted just a couple of seconds, and Crowley pulled away with a shy blush and a hopeful smile. But he immediately read in Aziraphale’s wide eyes that he had made a mistake.  
Angel?  
His voice was a mere whisper, while Aziraphale mildly blushed and increased the space between them on the bench. And there was nothing more painful than his reaction to Crowley’s kiss.  
Eyes wide in panic, or was it horror?  
Pulling away and sliding to the opposite side of the bench, or was it the other side of the world?  
Letting go of Crowley’s hand as if it had burnt him, or was it the demon’s trust and heart that he was letting go of?  
The demon was grateful for his sunglasses that hid the tears forming in his yellow eyes. Before Aziraphale could say a word, Crowley had disappeared from the park.  
You’re such a fool, Crowley. Of course, he could never love you that way.  
The demeaning voice is familiar, it’s been repeating words as harsh as those since his Fall. It almost sounds like Satan’s.  
He’s sobbing again, and his cheeks are wet with tears that roll down his face and fall onto the sleeves of his folded arms. He hasn’t noticed it, but he’s leaning against the wall separating his plants from the living room. They hear him, of course, and it makes them all terribly sad too. They’ve seen him carrying some plant he was to 'destroy’ to simply put them somewhere else, and ever since, they haven’t been that scared of him. They know that he’s actually a rather nice person – although he won’t admit it. So, they stretch their leaves a little more, and force their chlorophyll to reach the most vibrant green shade, just in case he would pass before them, to make him feel better. But Crowley is still on the ground, and not going anywhere.  
The phone rings and is left unanswered, Crowley doesn’t even bother to listen to the message recorded on the voicemail. He doesn’t care. Nothing matters anymore.  
The bottle is empty, but quickly fills up again.  
Just a little more alcohol, and he’ll forget it all.  
————————————————————————————————   
Worried is an understatement. To describe how terrified Aziraphale is, one would have to picture the scariest feeling they have ever experienced and multiply it by a hundred, at the very least.  
He’s called Crowley three times since their parting at the park, and he can’t stop cursing himself for his stupid reaction. He didn’t have the time to stop Crowley from walking away, and spent hours in his bookshop trying to figure out what to do next. He called, but the demon didn’t answer.  
No choice left, he has to make sure Crowley is okay, that he is home, safe in his apartment.  
When he knocks on the dark door and there is no answer, his heart skips a beat. By now, he’s not just afraid of what Crowley might say when they see each other again, he’s terrified that something might have happened to the demon.  
“Crowley!” he calls through the door, knocking again.  
He is met with nothing but a perfect silence.  
“Crowley, dear, it’s Aziraphale. Open the door, would you? I just want to check if you’re okay.”  
Again, nothing meets his plea but the echo of his voice through the deserted corridor.  
He heaves a sigh and snaps his fingers to unlock the door, stepping inside the flat. Guilt pulls at his heart for a second, but then, he’s too worried about Crowley to care about trivial technicalities such as breaking into his apartment.  
He has barely walked a few steps inside, closing the door behind him, when he spots Crowley’s motionless form lying on the ground. And his heart stops working altogether this time.  
“Crowley!”  
He runs more than walks to him and lets himself fall next to the unconscious demon. Or well, not quite completely unconscious yet. His lopsided spectacles reveal one of his eyes, not quite closed. It’s reddened and glimmering, puffy too, and Aziraphale finally notices that his cheeks are wet. He finds the empty bottle of whiskey on the ground right next to Crowley, and heaves a sigh of relief.  
The idiot is just drunk.  
“Crowley, you need to sober up.”  
“Are you… you… her’? Or ’s me that is, me hallucination… nation… nationatisating…?” the demon fails to articulate properly.  
“I’m here,” Aziraphale answers patiently, but sighes again all the same. “Now, really, you need to sober up.”  
Crowley shakes his head like a child refusing to eat his greens.  
“No’ want to.”  
“Crowley…”  
“No… No feelings… 'tis too muuuuuuch…” he keeps on moaning.  
He freezes when Aziraphale cups his cheek, drying his skin with his thumb in a soft caress.  
“Crowley, please. Sober up.”  
“I don’t want us to… chit-chat chitty-chatty talk through the whole… the whole… point.”  
“Why not?”  
Crowley is too drunk to control anything that comes out of his mouth or his eyes, that’s why he starts crying again, and speaks words too true to be uttered while sober.  
“Cause if we… we do the talking… then you… you’re gonna… you will tell me stop. You’ll tell me 'no, Crowley, never’, and I can't… I can’t hear it. I’d rather… I’d rather stay drunk… I still need tha’ hope.”  
But Aziraphale doesn’t budge.  
“Crowley, please. For me.”  
The magic words, and the bastard knows it.  
Crowley’s eyes fall closed, and he winces hard as the alcohol is extracted out of his veins and finds its way inside the nearby bottle again, and the surplus magically disappears into thin air.  
When he opens his eyes again, Crowley’s struggling to breathe.  
“Angel? What the hell are you doing here?”  
He finally notices that Aziraphale is still stroking – and drying – his cheek, and he sits up in a jolt to break the contact.  
“You didn’t answer my call, I was worried something might have happened to you.”  
“I’m fine,” Crowley grumbles back, straightening his sunglasses and standing up, quickly enough so he can discreetly dry his cheeks while the angel stands as well.  
“You’re obviously not fine, Crowley.”  
“I said I’m fine.”  
“I’ve just found you crying and almost unconscious on your floor…”  
“I SAID I’M FINE!”  
His voice goes up before he can control it, spinning around to glare at the angel, his best friend, his only friend, the one he so ardently loves and has loved ever since that conversation upon the walls of Eden…  
Aziraphale straightens his coat, and Crowley knows the gesture means he’s both uncomfortable and hurt. But he’s too damaged himself right now to apologize.  
“Go home, Aziraphale,” he manages to add in a calmer tone, yet made hoarse by tears and a tightened throat.  
“No, I can’t. We need to talk.”  
“We don’t need to talk.”  
“We do though. About what happened today at Saint James’s Park.”  
“Angel, I’m actually begging you, just leave me alone.”  
But there’s this glint alit in the angel’s stare, this stubborn look that tells Crowley he has no chance of winning the argument. Aziraphale is not going anywhere.  
“You… I… I’m sorry, I didn't… react the way I meant to,” the angel stutters, twisting his hands together. “I was… surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d do that.”  
“Obviously. Horrified fits better though.”  
It hurts, the sharpness, the harshness even, in Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale’s glance saddens, but at the sight of sorrow painted all over the demon’s features, he doesn’t dare to protest.  
“I was taken aback, and I shouldn’t have reacted this way. I realize that it might have made you feel… quite bad.”  
And Crowley wants to reply with something sassy, witty… if he is to be completely honest, he even leans towards something cruel to spit back now. But he can’t. It’s Aziraphale. And it’s the most painful of it all really that shows through Crowley’s open cracks and bleeding scars.  
He can never have Aziraphale, but he can’t live without him either.  
“It’s fine. Let’s just… forget it all happened.”  
He heaves a sigh, and finally notices that he’s standing in the doorway leading to his plants. He reckons the distraction would be welcome, so he gestures the angel towards the door as he turns around and steps into the room. The plants shudder a little as he enters.  
“See you later, Aziraphale. I’m tired. And I need to take care of my plants before going to sleep.”  
But the angel doesn’t follow the direction of the door that Crowley indicates. Instead, he follows the demon in the room.  
The plants try to ignore the conversation, but they all stretch their leaves a little bit more towards the angel and the demon standing there, focused despite themselves on whatever will be spoken.  
“Crowley…”  
“I told you…”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“There’s no need for you to be,” Crowley answers with a voice that sounds annoyed as he forces it not to break, while he awkwardly stands in the middle of the room, slowly reaching for the spray bottle already filled with water. “It was… silly of me… to do that…”  
Outside, the sun is long gone, leaving only a path of stars in its wake. The moon has decided not to show itself tonight, and no clouds stain the firmament either. Downwards, the city shines with electric lights that can’t manage to compete with the beauty of the stars above. Crowley moves towards the window, his back to the angel.  
“I don’t even know why I did that,” the demon goes on as Aziraphale remains silent. “Really, I… I don’t know what passed through my head.”  
He jumps when Aziraphale takes his hand in his, but doesn’t free himself from the touch.  
“I’m sorry, I panicked,” the angel admits in his fragile, shaking voice, and if he can’t see them, Crowley can hear the withheld tears Aziraphale is fighting against.  
“I was being ridiculous.”  
“No, you weren’t.”  
Crowley finally turns to his friend again, his lips parting slightly in both surprise and hope. He trembles when the angel reaches up to take his glasses off, but doesn’t push him away again. Aziraphale smiles at him as he puts the glasses in Crowley’s chest pocket and dives into the golden eyes.  
“Here, much better,” he breathes, blushing a little, his breathing becoming more and more uneven.  
“Angel?”  
“Yes?”  
“Did you mean that?”  
“Mean what?”   
It hurts to see how fragile Crowley looks. It’s so rare for the demon to let his guard down, to let anyone see beyond the confident mask he wears so well. To see the cracks through his heart and soul is both a privileged and terrible sight, and it is granted to none but Aziraphale.  
“That you… overreacted a little?”  
“Well… yes…”  
“Because I…”  
Crowley clenches his jaw and blinks the tears away. It hurts so much to say it. It’s a bit like lying, although, not really. It’s not what Crowley wants, but he knows he can’t have what he wants. So he chooses the best option left. And it hurts so much to ask for a seashell when one wants the entire sea.  
“I don’t want us to… not be friends anymore. I… I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Can you… please, don't… leave me… don’t stop talking to me, don’t stop being my friend. You're… you’re my best friend…”  
His voice breaks and he shudders as he gasps for air. The pain pushes the air out of his lungs too quickly for him to breathe properly, and even if he doesn’t need air to live, his body has grown so accustomed to the practice that he does feel like he’s suffocating.   
“Oh… Crowley…”  
Aziraphale gives his hand a squeeze, and raises the other to cup his cheek as tears threaten more and more to escape.  
“I’m not going anywhere. Ever. We’re going to stay together, forever. I promise.”  
“Forever’s a long time, you’re sure you’re up for that?” Crowley tries to joke, but he means it too much to do so.  
“Don’t you know that already?”  
Crowley merely shrugs in response, and silence settles between them for a moment. They ignore the plants still listening to them, and Aziraphale tries to ignore the way the stars outside seem to gather around Crowley like a distant halo.  
It’s hard to speak the words he’s refrained for a long time now. When he thinks about it, Aziraphale finds himself a little silly. He’s a being of love, after all, how can it be so difficult to express it then?  
And he’s been feeling this way for so long. He can’t pinpoint a precise moment when it all happened, he reckons that loving Crowley is more a habit settling in his heart. It’s progressive, it’s quiet, it’s certain and reassuring through the chaos of an uncertain world, but he’s not quite sure when he started behaving this way. All he knows is that he couldn’t live without it now.  
“I… I shouldn’t have reacted like that, I… I didn’t mean to push you away.”  
“I won’t do it again, don’t worry.”  
“I… I wouldn’t mind if you did, really.”  
They intensely stare at each other and none of them can breathe anymore, their hearts they don’t really need are beating too fast for that.  
“Do you mean that?”  
The angel nods, before going on his tiptoes and kissing the demon’s cheek, the same way Crowley kissed him in the park.  
They both close their eyes as lips meet skin. Just a moment, but it’s enough for the entire universe to disappear.  
When he pulls away, Aziraphale’s cheeks have turned crimson, and Crowley finds that adorable. He feels a little dizzy. The pain is leaving, waning, vanishing, cracks are repaired, and wounds mended, and scars close and the bleeding stops. Hope settles through him instead. Hope, and a warm, ineffable feeling that feels a lot like love.  
He realizes then that the entire world could break, it wouldn’t matter. Aziraphale could repair his entire universe with a simple touch, a kiss on the cheek…  
He raises his hand to touch Aziraphale’s face as well, his long fingers travelling across his cheekbone and down to his jawline, making the angel tremble.  
Slowly, carefully, he leans down, leaving Aziraphale plenty of time to push him away if he wants to. But he doesn’t. Instead, he waits, motionless, a little shocked, but in a good way, astonished, until Crowley’s lips meet his.  
The kiss doesn’t last for long, it’s shy and delicate, as if they are both afraid to break the other under their lips. But it’s soft and loving all the same and both Crowley and Aziraphale are certain that such a thing will get them both discorporated. There is no way in heaven, or hell, or on earth, for them to handle how amazing the kiss makes them feel.  
Crowley pulls away, a terrified look on his face, and he and the angel share a stare for a few seconds, both of them trying to get their body to function again while their hearts are currently turning into fireworks, and their brains are only able to make one thought: ’we’ve kissed, we’ve kissed, we’ve kissed…’  
“Huh… Was that okay for me to do that?” Crowley asked in a hoarse voice, raising a questioning eyebrow.  
Aziraphale grins the brightest grin.  
“Yes. It was.”  
“Can I do it again?”  
“Oh, yes… please do… please do and never stop.”  
They exchange an excited grin, before Crowley crushes their lips together again.  
The spray bottle falls to the ground and bounces a couple of times in a thud. The plants quietly cheer. The stars bend a little in the sky, gathering closer to watch the couple they have spent 6000 years observing finally united.  
They hold each other tightly, as tightly as they have both dreamt of for so long, and it feels so good to finally close the distance of six millennia. There isn’t an ounce of pain left in either of their hearts, no crack, no wound, no scar even. Even places none of them knew needed healing are mended. Things are exactly how they should be now.  
They don’t stop kissing for a long while, and they keep on kissing often after that first kiss.  
After all, after six millennia reaching out, it feels good to finally be home.


End file.
